


Every star a sun

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Kidfic, OC, Parentlock, Shut up about babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4609578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I realize...” he started, not knowing himself, not knowing what was appropriate to say. “For a long time, I’ve known you did not deserve how I treated you. That I made a terrible mistake.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” said Molly Hooper. “You certainly made something.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every star a sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amalia Kensington (amaliak01)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/gifts).



> This is certainly not my best story, but a fun and fluffy detour from some of the others I'm working on at the mo'. Hope you enjoy it. Huge thanks to my darling dear, Amalia Kensington for the beta read. Man, she is aces. 
> 
> I shamelessly love the really stupid "secret baby" trope #sorrynotsorry. Jeez. Shut up about babies, Mia.

* * *

"Every star may be a sun to someone.”

― Carl Sagan, _Cosmos_

* * *

 

She thinks of that night sometimes, when she had him. The way had wanted him, and for so long. She thinks of that night, wonders if maybe it wasn’t some kind of experiment? After all the madness ended, after the horrible broadcast and the copycat bombings; once Mary was out of custody, when Caitlin was safe and John’s desperate fear and panic subsided, maybe…

It doesn’t tax her imagination. He was after a fix, of sorts. In need of something, desperate for stimulation, any at all. It wasn’t about her. Their history says enough of that. Still.

She thinks of that night sometimes and she wonders, was the fallout of grief and heartache worth it? Was the wrenching, wounding distance, and leaving London behind as justified as she’s told herself it was? Was the break clean and necessary? Was her life—was it _truly_ , Molly Hooper—was it better? She’ll spin herself into worried, troubled thoughts, weighing _ifs_ and _buts_ and _maybes_ until her nerves are frayed. Until her heart is heavy.

And then her little boy will ask a question. He will beam a smile. He will turn up his nose or shake with the force of his deep, silly, little-boy belly laugh. And Molly Hooper will smile because she knows:

 _Absolutely, it was._  

 

* * *

 

_Five years after_

 

The ruse at the heart of Mycroft’s Oxford “case” revealed itself exactly one half-second after the door opened in the form of a pair of large brown eyes he hadn’t seen in a long time.

A very long time.

The pieces snapped into place. How _obvious_ it became—His elder brother had hounded him for weeks, months, insistent. “A short train ride,” Mycroft had urged. “A car, if you prefer. This matter is of the utmost importance, Sherlock. A great deal depends upon it.”

Oh, _indeed_.

Sherlock had been dismissive. Recalcitrant, even. He’d grown increasingly resentful of his brother in the last years—Their childish board-game visits had dried up after the debacle with Jim Moriarty’s impersonator and Mary Watson’s brief incarceration. Her secrets had not been safe. Her life with John, their daughter, all of it had been compromised. Mycroft had failed. Much worse, _he_ had failed.

Many things changed in the fallout. Greg Lestrade rarely requested his involvement with the NSY. Anderson abandoned his fan club. Mrs. Hudson, overwhelmed and only growing older, had taken to spending winters in Mallorca, avoiding the dramatics at Baker Street for months and months out of the year. Even the Watsons were not immune. He saw his goddaughter and John often, but there was a distance between them, especially with Mary. Between them lay a darkness, empty but for clouds of unease and remorse and guilt. It was a void he never been able to bridge. How different they all were, now, from the people they had once been to each other.

No one more so than the woman standing before him.

Sherlock Holmes could not speak.

Neither, apparently, could Molly Hooper.

She froze, mouth a hard line, eyes huge. His mouth hung open, not only with the shock of seeing her in person, but at how unfamiliar she appeared.

The Molly Hooper he remembered had long brown hair and a thin, self-conscious smile. That was the Molly who had locked off whole rooms of his mind palace, lingering out of sight in corners and rooms he could not visit. Molly Hooper, a ghost not yet dead, whose spectre would not speak, however often he was haunted by her voice. This woman was not that Molly Hooper. She was still all fine bones and pale skin, but with short reddish hair. She was thinner, slept poorly, and had the barest crinkle of lines at her eyes.

“Molly,” he breathed.

It had been more than five years since he’d seen her in person. All the terrible things he’d said during their last encounter came back in an unrelenting rush. So, too, did the many days and nights he had re-lived those awful moments, cataloguing the quality of his cruelty during Mary’s ordeal. It was only later, when they’d come through the maelstrom that he had recognized his catastrophic mistakes.

Her surprise faded. Her mouth pulled back, baring small, white teeth and menace. Footsteps sounded behind her. She reached for the door, hissed. “Go.”

“Wait—”

“You have to go,” she hissed in a rush, pushing him away.

“ _Molly_. Stop. Wait–!”

“I mean it.”

“Please!”

“Sherlock, please! You can’t be here.” She glanced over her shoulder. “ _I_ can’t– You– You just have _to go!_ ” she hisses. “I’ll meet you later, whatever you want, but I–He can’t–”

“Why?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He stepped a foot inside the jamb, bristled by the fear in her expression and what had put it there. What would Molly Hooper have to fear from a visit? Some fool partner, a boyfriend, _hus_ –

She pushed her hands to his chest. “Stop it! _You can’t—_ ”

His heart hitched in its progress.

He saw, and he _knew_.

The revelation was startling. Set in motion a chain reaction of other realizations: The radio silence from his parents. Mycroft’s inordinate disinterest in engaging him for anything other than a steady supply of dull, dreary, domestic matters. The dissipation of cases from the Yard. Mary.

The boy had dark, messy hair. Small, upturned nose. Large, serious eyes. A spray of freckles lay peppered his across his face. As Sherlock studied him, concern bloomed on the child’s small features. Brows furrowed, he tipped his head toward Molly in silent question.

Molly dropped her hands, forced a frayed smile. “It’s fine,” she said, overly bright. Sherlock found the tone disconcerting.

The child said nothing, but by all outwards appearances took little comfort in being placated: He very clearly registered her anxiety. His flicked eyes back and forth: to Molly, to Sherlock, and Molly again. Assessing. She gestured to an adjoining room. He nodded slowly, skeptically, before padding through, out of sight.

Sherlock swallowed. His heart was pounding.

He turned to Molly, who held her herself tight, her eyes closed. Expression defeated. The tension in her profile was pained. Pinched. He wanted to speak, but could not. He wanted to bark questions and orders, demand explanations, but could not form the words to do so. He could do nothing but follow where his feet lead into the looming doorway, where, transfixed, he moved to where the boy sat on the carpet floor bent over a tablet computer beeping musical electronic sounds.

Sherlock crouched. Words stalled on his tongue. Hesitating, he managed an awkward, “Hello.”

_Yes, excellent opening._

The boy glanced up, his expression one of continued skepticism and permissible disinterest in the grown-up before him. Sherlock knew the feeling. Considering his game again, the boy offered a quick, “H’lo.”

He blinked rapidly, at a loss.

“Who you?” the boy asked after several long moments, eyes fixed on his game.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

He looked up. “What?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock repeated, taking in the child’s bluest eyes. He felt dizzy.

The boy made a face. “That’s my name,” he said.

Sherlock balked. “Your name is Sherlock Holmes?”

“No,” the boy replied evenly. “My name is Oliver Nicholas Hooper Holmes.”

_Oh. Well. That makes more sense._

The boy blinked bright blue eyes, explained, “Mummy calls me Ollie.”

“And, what does your father call you?” he ventured, swallowing.

“I have a mum and an uncle and a gran and grandpa, but not a father.” He said it with a particular monotone, a flatness, that struck him as odd. As though it were a line he’d rehearsed. The child gave him a look best reserved for reporters and members of the NSY. “Not all families look the same, you know,” he said with mild reproach, suggesting something to the effect of, _Obviously_.

“True.” He watched the boy fiddle with his tablet. “What–” he tried, “is that you are doing?”

Buttons clicked and beeped. “Game.”

“I...like games. How d’you play?”

“Like this.” Ollie demonstrated with his fingers. Several planets were aligned around a shining sun. One had to replicate the orbital motion patterns the program generated. He demonstrated, held it out for Sherlock to follow suit.

Sherlock tapped. The blue planet wobbled off-axis.

“Nope,” Ollie said, without judgement. “Again.”

He tapped a second time. Blue planet passed the mark. Green planet, however, went too far past the asteroid belt.

“Wrong.”

Sherlock’s mouth ticked up. He glanced over at the boy, who was watching closely. “Apparently I’m a slow learner.”

“Yes,” Ollie agreed. “That’s okay. Keep trying.”

On the third try he made the pattern fit.

“Good job.” Ollie held up his hand. “Fives.”

Sherlock’s brows rose in wordless question.

Ollie understood. “You’re supposed to gives high-fives when you do it right. It’s to encourage.”

“Oh.” He raised his palm and tapped it lightly against Ollie’s.

“Good job.” The little boy grinned a sweet crooked smile. His mouth ticked up to one side more than the other.

Molly smiled like that. It was Molly’s. Exactly Molly’s smile.

_Oh God…_

He was doomed. Utterly doomed.

“Oliver.” Molly stood in the doorway. Her knuckles were white as they pressed against the jamb.

Ollie looked up to her. “This is Sherlock Holmes. I don’t know why he’s here.”

“Will you take Sundance outside, please?”

A small white and black pup scrabbled against the kitchen floor. Ollie nodded. He placed his game on a bookshelf, skirting past Molly, who mumbled a quiet thanks, rewarded with a quick, huggy motion before Oliver Nicholas Hooper Holmes slipped out of sight. “C’mon, Sunny!” he hollered.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, feeling the rising rush of blood in his veins. He felt light-headed. “Sundance?” he heard his own voice speak.

Molly looked over her shoulder. “He likes cowboys.” Inside the kitchen she leaned her palms heavily against the ceramic lip of the sink, watching Ollie and his dog run about the small garden. “Cowboys. Spaceships. Pirates. Anything adventurous.”

He stood at the door, weightless. Dissonance rang in his ears. “You–?” He swallowed. “We–...child?”

Molly half turned, frowning. “You didn’t know?”

“Um, _no_.”

Frown firm, she asked, “Then why…? What are you doing here? I thought–” She looked away, so her face was obscured and looked out the window. “I mean, I assumed you’d found out. Or knew. I don’t know.”

“Mycroft. Lied. ‘Client,’” he breezed. The details were not important. “Molly,” he asked, angry. Not angry. Deeply confused. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

She laughed. A cruel sound, mean-spirited, cold. _Wrong_. She spun on him with fire in her expression again. “Are you truly _serious_?”

The black, haunting anxiety that had eaten at him, driven him to manic ends and desperate needs in the months after that disastrous falling out, that feeling bloomed fresh in the pit of his stomach. Her scowl was so much more appalling in person. His fingers toyed at the crook of his elbow, splaying out over his forearm. He drew a breath.

“What does it matter?” Her chin held a defiant angle. “It didn’t matter to you then. _I_ didn’t matter, or don’t you remember? After that night, after everything Mary had been through, and how terrified John was. After you came to me— _again_ —and…”

She trailed off, shaking her head. “I did try to tell you. Just as I tried to say it was okay. We could still be friends or I don’t know, _whatever_. It was just a mistake. A substitute for a case or maybe a fix. I knew it wasn’t…” She exhaled fast, gripped the countertop harder. “It was just something you needed. But you wouldn’t speak to me. And when I found out, I tried so many times. And you just…” She trailed off, shook her head. "After everything, _everything_ I did for you—after every consultation and late night and paperwork fix and indulging your _stupid_ , non-scientific–”

He gasped in affront.

Her finger jutted out at him. “No, they _are_! Your flat is not a lab and your idle curiosities are not peer-reviewed findings!” she interjected, viciously. “After everything, your way of dealing with whatever happened was to _hide_. To run away.”

“That’s not–” The flash of shame was vivid, blinding. He averted his face from the glare.

She traced an invisible line along the granite counter, visibly deflated. “‘Get. Out.’ That’s what you said to me. Dismissed like a boring client. Like I hadn’t helped you all those times, all those years. Like I hadn’t been your friend.”

Her large eyes held his. “Those were the last words you spoke to me before today.”

The muted laughter of the young boy in the grass was the only sound for long moments after long years.

“You are many things, Sherlock,” Molly spoke softly. “But I never thought you were a coward before then.”

His throat scraped small words. “I realize...” he started, not knowing himself, not knowing what was appropriate to say. “For a long time, I’ve known you did not deserve how I treated you. That I made a terrible mistake.”

In the long glimmers of a fading afternoon, Ollie shrieked in delight. Sundance darted across the lawn, running circles around him, and chasing toys and sticks and birds.

“Yes, well,” said Molly Hooper. “You certainly made something.”

 

* * *

 

Opposite her across the countertop, he inquired: “How long has my brother known?”

“Since I was six months pregnant. A little before.”

He dipped his head, studying his hands. “And they have...a relationship?”

Molly nodded. “And your parents.”

It was worse somehow, knowing they did. “John doesn’t know?”

Molly hesitated. “No, though Mary does. About Ollie. And you, I suppose. I’ve never told her, but she’s worked it out.”

He tipped his head in aggravation. “So _that’s_ why she avoids me. Thought it was guilt for putting a bullet in me. The CIA thing.” He flapped a hand ineffectually. He sighed. “So–” he glanced at the child, “So he knows them, but not about me?”

Molly sat very still. “One day, perhaps. But no, for now, he does not know who his father is. He deserves more than a casual dismissal.” The words echoed her description of his mistreatment. A fair, if cutting, assessment.

“Sunny, no! Do _not_ eat Lulabelle!” laughed Oliver from the garden hedge.

“Neighbor’s cat,” Molly explained.

“Ah.” He nodded. Glanced around the small, warm kitchen. Photographs covered the fridge. His absence all the more striking in the familiar faces that smiled in them.

_Oh. Mummy._

Molly’s auburn hair caught the light. Red-gold glimmers rioted across her crown. “Your parents adore him. He loves them so much.” she said, following his gaze. “They’ve been so good to him. To me.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he did not. They sat in a blanketed, awkward silence for long moments. It reminded him of so many of their encounters years before, when she’d been a nervous, meek slip of a girl. Now, she held herself with great calm and composure while he played the misstepping idiot in her presence.

Ollie clamored up the garden path and barreled through the door. “Mummy,” Ollie asked, seeing Sherlock was still here. He hugged Molly’s waist, somewhat shy. “Is Sherlock Holmes staying for supper?”

Sherlock met her gaze with as innocuous an expression as he could muster. “Is he?”

Molly glared. “Sherlock doesn’t eat when he’s on a case,” she replied.

“Good job I’m not on one at the moment,” he pointed out.

She shook her head. “Fine.”

He felt a strange, determined _compulsion_ toward the child: to observe his behavior, to learn about him, to talk with him. He had no context for it—not the fast friendship he’d formed with John Watson; not the trust he’d placed in Greg Lestrade; not the growing attraction that had, one night, overrun his carefully controlled boundaries with a sweet, brown-eyed pathologist who had believed in him during his darkest hours.

Nothing felt like this.

Molly gathered some vegetables from her garden, preparing a meal he held no real interest in while Oliver chattered and Sundance nipped at his heels.

Sherlock rolled his shirtsleeves up, bending down to pat the dog’s ears. “How old is he?”

Ollie watched him pet the puppy’s soft fur. He tilted his head, preoccupied by something. He appeared not to have heard him. A moment later, he glanced up at Sherlock. “Hmm?”

“I asked how old he is.”

“Oh. Eight months and nineteen days,” Ollie replied. He neatly measured a cup of kibble, holding up the measuring cup to ensure he had the appropriate volume. Sherlock felt his chest tighten. The puppy sniffed and licked at his hands. “Does Sundance know commands?”

“Sunny, sit!” Ollie commanded with great authority, to which Sundance responded by trotting to his water bowl and sloshing much of it upon the floor. “We are working on it,” Ollie answered with a small sigh that betrayed the Very Serious and Great Difficulty of the matter.

Sherlock nodded his understanding. Dogs were Very Serious matters.

“Make yourself useful,” Molly intoned, not looking him in eye. She filled plates with whole-grain this and organic something. Sherlock filled cups with cold water, thinking of Redbeard and of the last time his mother has spoken to him, almost five years before. He swallowed a bite of something overwhelmingly nutritious, organically green and vitamin rich that sat in his mouth like fibrous mush and tasted of nothing on his tongue. “I had a dog when I was small,” he said to Oliver.

Molly gave him a warning glance. _Stop immediately_ , her expression seemed to say.

“Do you like other animals?” Sherlock asked, moving on.

“I like bees,” Ollie said. He speared a vegetable and considered it before taking a dispassionate nibble. “D’you know where bees go on holiday?” he asked around his mouthful of greens.

Sherlock frowned, finding he was not as well-versed in the migratory patterns of bees in the UK as he would like. “No, where?” he asks, genuinely interested.

Ollie swished his fork. “Stingapore.”

Sherlock blinked. Then laughed. Truly. Molly looked at her plate. Her eyes closed. She breathed deeply and silently.

Ollie, knowing when he had an audience, apparently, asked: “D’you know what’s a bee’s favorite shape?”

He set his fork aside, leaned on his elbows, considering the matter. “What is a bee’s favorite shape?”

“Rhombuzz.”

And Sherlock surprised himself by laughing again, his voice joined by smaller giggles echoing through the little kitchen.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, she stepped through the back door to the yard.

Molly Hooper sat on the steps of her little house in her little town listening to the laughter of her son and the man she’d loved for nearly all her adult life. She tucked the shortish auburn hair behind her ears, unsure if she was incredibly happy or terribly, terribly sad.

 

* * *

 

Ollie spoke up before bed.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” He tugged his pyjamas over his head.

“What’s funny?”

“How Sherlock Holmes has the same name as me.”

She turned his bed down, not wanting to pursue that thought experiment. “Pick out a book, little boy.”

“I did, little mum.” He pointed to _The Magic Schoolbus_. Molly helped him climb under the covers before sitting beside him.

She smoothed back his wild curls. He snuggled against her rib cage. She smiled into his brow. “You know I love you very much, right?”

He opened his book, snuggling close. “I love _you_ very much, Mummy,” he said without hesitation. Without artifice or guile.

She leaned her cheek against his hair. “So polite.”

“Will Sherlock Holmes come visit again?”

She thumbed the edges of the book, finding the paper seams, the point of undoing. “Would you like that?”

“I like him. He’s funny.” Ollie opened his book. “But he is _awful_ at _Astro Adventure_.”

Molly’s mouth hitched up. “We’ll see. So, where is Ms. Frizzle going today? Oh, space. Lovely.”

Molly watched her son long after he fell asleep, unable, somehow, to leave the warm planet of his bed. A tiny red nightlight of Mars threw rosy light across his pale face. His dark curls reflected glints of auburn. She loved him more than anything. Enough to deny him a father who could be cruel and careless (and gentle and brilliant and kind), or enough to reach out, bridge the difficult distance and plunge on anyway? She could not say.

Grim with uncertainty, she rose to her feet considering the possibilities.

“What do you want?” she asked the spectre in her living room.

The ghost of things gone replied, “I don’t know.”

“Why are you here?”

The truth: “I don’t know.”

Her heart sank. “Go back to London, Sherlock.”

“Wait—” He caught her wrist.“I–” She was shocked to see him stutter, tremble, even. “Tell me. About him. Please.”

She studied him. The lines at his eyes, the curve of his cheekbones, He was aging well, though not helping the process, if truth be told. She imagined his bad habits had not changed—The steady diet of takeaway, the days and nights of work. There was little doubt, however, that Sherlock Holmes carried a powerful genetic legacy. His son was insatiably curious. Quiet in new situations. Bold and bright and silly.

Whatever else happened, one day Oliver would ask about where he had come from. It was inevitable. Someday, he would be old enough to understand part, if not all the reasons why they had fallen out. She owed it to her son to tell his father everything he wanted to know, if only so that one day she could tell Oliver, _When he asked, I held nothing back_.

Moving through photos and videos of her son’s short life, she told him about the anxiety that had wracked her first weeks of pregnancy. The fearful summoning to the Diogenes Club in her sixth month, and the shocked expression of disbelief on Mycroft’s face when presented with the results of the paternity tests.

He tipped his head back, lamenting, “My kingdom for CCTV of that moment.”

“There’s a Christmas idea.” She swiped to new pages, not looking, but the corners of her mouth ticked up a hair.

Sherlock stared at a photograph of his mother with Ollie in her arms. “She stopped speaking to me. Both my parents.”

Molly pursed her lips. “I know.”

“I didn’t know why. Didn’t really notice until one year it was Christmas and then Christmas again, and I realized I hadn’t been badgered for birthdays or theater trips or flowers or dinners. I’d always wanted my family to leave me well enough alone and, finally...” He fell silent.

Ollie, aged two, a children’s book in his hands.

“He’s so smart. Wildly so,” she said.

“I can see.”

“It’s not a hindrance, socially. If you...I mean–He has friends. Lots.”

“That’s good.”

“He’s so much of you,” Molly whispered. “I look at him, and sometimes it’s all I see.”

 

* * *

 

He woke to the sound of tapping. The boy sat quietly on the floor, leaning his elbows on his knees, drumming his fingers along one small patella.

Sherlock turned fully onto his side, looking down from the sofa pillow. “Hello,” he said, voice raspy.

Ollie looked up, his eyes shining.

“Can’t sleep?”

Ollie blinked. His eyebrows knit curiously upward. He looked very concerned. “Mycroft is my uncle,” he ventured.

Sherlock sat up, coming more awake. He gestured for Ollie to join him. “That is true,” he said, reaching down to assist him up onto the cushion.

“An uncle is a brother to your parent. He is not my mum’s brother. So he must be my father’s brother.”

Oliver traced a constellation of freckles along Sherlock’s forearm. The arm he had stared at so intently earlier that evening, when he had been petting Sundance. As a child, Sherlock had often connected them with lines of ink, creating a pattern of lines and spirals. The boy held out a his small arm. An identical pattern of freckles was splayed across his skin. “Sames.”

Ollie traced invisible lines between identical dots. “My uncle Mycroft has the same last name as me. Just like you.”

Sherlock felt, in that moment, such enormity of pride, such all encompassing joy as to be breathtaking.

“Are you my dad?” Ollie whispered, eyes wide, curious, questioning.

What else to say? How else could he respond to this small boy, so much of his mother and so much, apparently, of _him_  as well as his own self. His son, all of four years and some odd months old, had properly deduced his own parentage. He was amazed. He was terrified. He was immensely, undeniably proud.

“Yes,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Well, biologically.”

“What's biologically?”

“It means your DNA—all the cells in your body, everything that determines the color of your hair to this pattern of freckles on your skin—came...half, from me."

"How?"

 _Not answering that_. "Well...we made you."

"Oh. You did?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "Though, in all honesty I was unaware of your existence until yesterday."

Ollie nodded thoughtfully, considering this. "That's okay. I was unaware of your existence until yesterday, too." His lips pursed. Question? "Since you're my...bio-bio–”

“Biological.”

“Biological dad, does that mean you are my _Dad_?"

He did not grasp. "Explain."

"Whatsit I call you?"

"Oh. Yes. Ahm, that makes sense. I suppose? Unless there's something else you prefer?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Lucy Zao has two dads. She calls them both Dad. Some people have two mums. And I used to have just one mum, but _no_ dad. Nico Karkoulis has a Mum and a Peter. He's _not_ a Dad. He's just a Peter." He gave a small sigh. "People are confusing."

"Mmm, yes. Very." He cleared his throat. "I...think we need to ask Molly, er, your mother."

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Ollie twisted his mouth, scrunched his nose. “Can I stay down here?”

“If you want to.”

“I want to.”

Sherlock laid back against the sofa pillow. Oliver snuggled close. He fit below his arm, against his ribs and shoulder in a way that surprised him. It felt odd. Comfortable.

“Do you live in Oxford?” Ollie whispered.

“No I live in London.”

“I didn’t think so. I’ve been to London, but I don’t remember.”

_Criminal, Molly. Criminal._

And so Sherlock told him. He told his son about the river and the parks, the streets and the villages. About Tower Hill and Maiden Lane; about the shops in Southwark, about the pubs in Greek Street; the courts of Lincoln’s Inn and theaters off Covent Garden. He told his son about the City, about the boroughs, about the villages and ports, about the towering buildings with ridiculous names. He told his son about the marvelous treasures in St. Paul’s, the spire of Westminster, the clockface of Big Ben. He told him about the Vikings and the Celts; the Druids and Catholics; the Luftwaft and the Blitz. He told his son about everything he loved, everything he despised, all the beautiful and terrible and ancient aspects of his home.

And as he did, Sherlock Holmes began to see that he wanted much more than to _tell_ this small and excellent human all that he knew. He wanted, instead, to show him.

Oliver Nicholas Hooper Holmes fell asleep, snuggled against his father’s shoulder, lulled into dreams.

 

* * *

 

She was concerned to find him sitting at the kitchen table when she passed down to the kitchen in the morning. “Oliver,” she said with quiet reproach. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“No.”

“Why did you come downstairs then?” Molly asked, patting down his wild hair as Oliver reached for muesli.

“I was wondering if Sherlock Holmes was my father.”

She dropped her coffee spoon.

Oliver retrieved it. “He is.”

“What?”

“It is true,” came a deep and infuriating baritone.

She spun on her heel. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock held up a hand in defense. “He deduced my relationship to Mycroft.”

“He _deduced_ it?”

Sherlock beamed at Ollie, who grinned sweetly around his cereal. “Yes.”

Molly looked between them. The hardness, the tension in her expression slipped. She looked to the side. A tear slipped beneath her lashes.

Ollie sat up quickly, fear and concern flashing on his face. “What’s wrong? Mummy, _what’s wrong_? Why are you crying?” He dropped his spoon and scurried to her side, very scared.

“It’s okay, Ollie,” she breathed, wiping at her tears. “I’m fine. I’m...happy.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” Ollie whimpered. His mouth crumpled. He held tightly to her. “Don’t cry. Mummy,” he whispered. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s okay, little boy.” Molly held her son tightly. She met Sherlock’s eyes over her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

 

* * *

 

There were plans for the day, Molly explained. Routine was important to him. While Oliver selected some clothes, Sherlock asked if he would be allowed to accompany them, and was obliged.

“We spend Sundays with your parents,” Molly said, blunt. “You may join us if you promise not to make a scene.”

“I...will.”

A short while later, Molly steered them onto the quiet country lane that was as familiar a memory as the streets of London.

He saw his mother’s eyes widen with shock. She glanced once at her husband, whose bright eyes held a kind of nervous fear and reluctant hope.

“Little duck,” Mummy announced, swooping in for a hug.

“Grandma!” Ollie sang out. “Look! My dad came, too!” He wriggled out of her grasp and bounced happily to his father, swinging Sherlock’s hand.

“So he did.” She looked to Molly before returning her gaze down. “Oliver Nicholas,” Mummy said conspiratorially, bending to look her grandson in the eye. “There is a massive mud puddle in the garden that I am sure Sundance would love to splash around in. Please oblige your ancient grandmama and make an utter mess of yourselves. But do mind the Calla lillies. They’ve only just come in.”

“Yes, Grandma! C’mon, Sunny!”

She watched Ollie dash round the house toward the back garden, then spun her attention to him.

“Mummy, I think you should know–”

She slapped him. Twice.

“Suppose I deserve that,” Sherlock said, running his hand along his jaw.

“You shame me. You shame this family.”

“Miranda,” Molly said, her voice somehow laden with both understanding and quiet reproach.

“You’ve reconciled? Made an agreement? Discussed your plans?”

Molly folded her hands. “Today we’re having tea,” she said. “Tomorrow’s a bit off, yet.”

A wordless understanding seemed to pass between them. Mummy nodded, softening. “Oh, my lovely,” Mummy sighed. She touched Molly’s cheek, held her shoulders. She turned to face Sherlock, hard-eyed once more, but less so. “If it were up to me, you’d have a long way to go yet. Still, our Molly has heart beyond us all.”

“ _Our_ Molly?”

“Yes. Ours. Molly, who we love and adore, along with her perfect, brilliant little boy. Who brightens our lives and brings us nothing but happiness.”

Molly looked to the ground, moved.

Mummy looked as though she wished to say more, but did not. She turned on her heel and walked away.

“It’s good to see you, Sherlock,” his father said. He took Molly under his arm and the pair of them went inside.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft arrived for lunch. Sherlock made a show of heckling him for it, as if nothing had changed. “Late, how unusual for you. Stop off for a snack on the M40?”

“Please forgive my tardiness, Mummy,” Mycroft says. “However much you’ve come to expect it from certain parties.” He glanced at his brother, then turned a brighter expression to his nephew. “Oliver, I am delighted to see you.”

“Hullo!” Oliver smiled brightly at his uncle. “We brought you shortbread!”

“You have always been my favorite nephew,” Mycroft replied, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“I am your _only_ nephew!” Oliver pointed out.

“Then for the moment, your status remains uncontested,” Mycroft said. “How has your day been?”

Oliver’s curls shook as he bounced in his seat. “My dad came with us and Sundance got mud _everywhere_ and there is a pirate ship in the woods! Dad showed me! But Mummy said I’m not allowed to climb to it because I not big enough. Yet,” he said, annoyed.

“Vitamins and time will help with that, I suspect,” Mycroft answered. 

Sherlock leaned his head in hand, tapped his fingers. His elder brother had gone so far as to fake a case in order to to introduce Oliver into his life. However little he wished to pretend Mycroft was an overbearing, meddlesome, glorified pencil-pusher, he could not deny that his brother did, in his way, care for him.

His mouth twitched in amusement at his son's antics. The deep belly-laughs and the sweet concern he showed for those around him. 

Sigh. Yes. He would have to acknowledge his appreciation to Mycroft.

Ollie tapped his elbow. “Sit up!” he whispered.

“Why?”

“‘s nice manners.”

“So?”

Oliver looked at him, puzzled. “You’re supposed act nice for people. They appreciate.”

Sherlock frowned, sitting up very fast and avoiding his brother's indecently gleeful smirk. Moment over. Sentiment revoked. He made a mental note to dose his brother’s tea with laxatives.

Molly kneeled by Ollie’s chair, face to face. “Are you behaving, little boy?”

“Are _you_ behaving, little mum?” he returned, accusing and delighted.

“Oh, naturally. I am very well-behaved.” She accented her virtue by stealing one of his biscuits and popping it into her mouth very fast.

“No, you are not!” He giggled.

Sherlock watched the exchange with great interest, as he did the rest of their interactions for the remainder of the day. Molly made an excellent mother. Kind, approving, gentle, but firm with boundaries and guidance. Oliver’s grandparents loved him, encouraged and enriched him. Even Mycroft (of all people) demonstrated much affection for the boy and took interest in his nephew’s life. Despite his absent father, Oliver was very fortunate in many ways to be born into such a family. As was he.

His mother was rinsing teacups under the faucet. He had only one question. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said to her back. “Why didn’t anyone _tell me_ I had a son?”

His mother glanced toward the garden. She smiled as Molly and his father each took one of Oliver’s hands, swinging him into the air between them. She spoke only the truth, “You didn’t deserve them, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

The afternoon had slipped into a cool blue evening by the time they returned to her little house outside Oxford. Bells rang over the black spires. Birds called from the reeds of the nearby river. A light wind stirred her hair as she settled on the back step, a mug of herbal tea in hand. The day had been tense, at times, but overwhelmingly _good_.

“I have to return to London.”

Molly nodded. “Of course.”

Sherlock sat at her shoulder. “You could come with me.”

She looked at him, incredulous. “What?”

“You heard me.”

She folded her arms across her chest, frowned. She felt defensive, irritated, by the sudden gesture. She supposed it was something _he thought_ he should do. Something he imagined was necessary. And also, very probably, would gain him an assistant again.

She huffed out a sigh. “Why? What would that accomplish? I am a mother to a small, high-maintenance human, Sherlock. I can’t be flitting after you, hopping crime scene to crime scene, staying up half the night running cultures and testing samples. I have a responsibility to something–some _one_ –else. Besides. You don’t want me. You just want an audience. One with access to cold storage and a centrifuge, probably. Not to mention, I am not at all certain I want him exposed to everything that is part of your life.”

He nodded once. Read between the unspoken lines. He rolled up his sleeve.

“After–” He does not elaborate upon what _after_ meant. She does not need him to. “I spent a few months on a case binge. _Burned_ through sevens, eights, nines. Took Mycroft’s tedious national crises and diplomatic nonsense. Anything. Eventually...I ended up…”

He swallowed, looked ashamed. “The needle was in my hand, Molly. In my hand. I looked at it, I knew I was prepared to do it. Throw away sobriety. And a great deal more than just that. I knew what it would cost me. And I thought of you. You calmed me. Soothed. Talked me down from the agitation and the _need_ of it. Calm. Logical. You reasoned me out of a fix. Well, _I_ did, but for reasons I have never questioned, when I am in danger, my consciousness has always chose to surface the most crucial information in your form. You save me, Molly. Every time.”

He held out his right arm. Neatly printed on the inside of his forearm were two serif script letters: _MH_.

“In all the time you have known me, you’ve known my methods. That in the course of my investigations, I rely upon facts and upon reason, above all else, to find my way to the truth.” He paused, looking up to her. “This is the truth. My truth.”

Her fingertips hovered in the space above the letters of her name.

“It’s not for Mycroft.”

Molly snorted. “Um, _no_ ,” she said, imitating him. “I didn’t think so.”

He smiled, let it fade. “Every day. Since Magnussen. And never again.”

She touched her fingers to the letters. Slid her palm across his skin. “I’m proud of you. I am, Sherlock.”

He curled his fingers around her hand.

“I am sorry. For how I treated you, out fear and anxiety. For my ignorance. For not helping you. For...a great many things you did not deserve, Molly Hooper.”

“I believe you,” she said. “But I won’t come with you.”

He nodded, his face bright with the terrified and fretful expression of a small boy. He looked so much like his son that she felt her heart might crack under the enormity of her feelings. “Scared. Then. Scared _squared_ now there’s a small human in the picture.”

She swung his hands a little. “Me too. Then. Now.”

“What can I do?”

“Do you mean it? You want to be part of his life? Really and truly, not just for a week or a month or a year, but you want to _actually_ be a father to your son? _Properly_?”

He blinked, hesitated a moment, but when he spoke, he nodded seriously. “I do.”

“Okay.” The tip of her tongue caught between her teeth. “When you are on a case, what is it you do?”

His brow furrowed, but he took her meaning. “I...find clues.”

“Exactly,” she said, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze. “You gather the pieces, examine the clues, and then you present your evidence, Sherlock. That’s how you make your case.” More seriously, “You don’t get to just fall back into my life.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“It’s not my own anymore.”

“I know,” he said. From the upstairs, Sundance yipped at something. A shower of toys or blocks or books went clattering to the floor. “May I say goodbye?”

Her resolve softened. “So long as it doesn’t involve murder for a decade or so, you can speak to him whenever you like.”

His mouth turned up. “Only a decade?”

“I’d make more, but if he’s anything like you...”

He kissed her cheek. “Perish the thought, Molly Hooper.”

 

* * *

 

“Can we read _Star Stuff_?” Oliver held up a children’s book. On the cover, a small boy gazed up at the sky in wonder. “It’s my favorite.”

“Of course.” Sherlock stood awkwardly. Did not know what the proper procedure was.

Oliver noticed. “Sit here.” He pointed to his side. They leaned against the headboard. Oliver slipped under his arm. The lasso print of his pyjamas splayed alongside E. Tautz slacks. Sherlock turned to the first page.

They read about a little boy in a great big city full of buildings and lights. The little boy loved the stars more than anything in the world. They were the source of all his imagination, and the settings of his wildest dreams. The boy grew up. He became a man, and still, he loved the stars. He told everyone he met about how much he loved them, and why. How they were beautiful and mysterious, and held all the secrets and wonders there ever were across the whole of the universe. And by and by, the man helped many other people fall in love with the stars, too.

When they story ended, Ollie tipped his head up. “Dad?” He bit his lip and asked, uncertain, “Can we play games in London, sometime?”

Sherlock nodded. “Whenever you like.”

Concern melted from Oliver’s small, Molly-like features. He smiled her lovely smile. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Sherlock folded the book up. “I believe it is your bedtime.”

“Yes. Mummy says structure is important,” Ollie relayed. “I dunno why.”

Sherlock shrugged, equally mystified. “Neither do I.”

“Night,” Ollie lisped, settling down into his bedding sleepily. “I love you.”

“How is it that possible?” Sherlock wondered aloud, even as he knew it was true. He brushed the boy’s curling hair back, kneeling at his bedside. “You’ve only just met me.”

Oliver Nicholas Hooper Holmes shrugged into his pillow, untroubled by his reality. “Jus’ do.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock Holmes went back to London. He spent nearly the entirety of the next day in his mind palace. Preparing.

He cleaned his flat.

He made an appointment with his solicitor.

He filled his iPad and living room with books from Amazon and Waterstones.

But before he did any of that, he leaned down and kissed his son. “I love you, too,” he said, his voice so low, only Ollie could hear.

 

* * *

 

Several days later, Molly was helping her son into his jacket while he turned something in his hands over and over.

"What have you got there?" she asked, fastening his buttons, unable to identify the small piece of plastic.

"It’s from my dad,” Ollie said.

Molly felt a momentary flash of annoyance. He’d been using the phrase nearly non-stop since Sherlock had left the weekend before. Sherlock Holmes had knowledge of his own parenthood for less than a week’s time and he’d already eclipsed her in their son’s life. Typical.

All her disquieting thoughts dissipated once Ollie held out his hand. In it sat a small, very familiar pocket magnifying glass. "He said I would need it.”

Her throat constricted in tandem with her heart. “What for?”

Ollie beamed. “To help you find _the clues_!" 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes was, she marveled, true to his word. He was at her doorstep the following weekend, the one after, and the next, each time armed with ideas and puzzles and adventures. There were visits to the Bodleian Library, the Ashmolean Museum, the Botanical Gardens. Games without end.

Sherlock took special delight in devising small experiments for Oliver to perform. “Mummy!” Oliver would wave her to join them, adjusting his lab goggles and making her heart ache with joy. And, proving his habits were truly cemented, totally disregarded personal space. More than once, she came into her office at the Cognitive Neuroscience Centre to find the door with the little placard bearing her name— _Dr. Molly Hooper, Faculty of Neuropathology_ —ajar and Sherlock and Oliver absorbed in a game on a tablet or a book in their lap. It went deeper than just the activities, though. More important than the Pixar films he endured, the meals he was disinterested in eating, was that his curiosity, his genuine interest and effort were palpable. Sherlock wanted to be there. Wanted to be _a father_.

In her occasional darker moments, she felt it was a phase. An interest he’d adopt, embrace, and discard when it suited him. And yet, he had done nothing to suggest that outcome. He texted frequently. Consulted her opinion on appropriate activities, influences, decisions (as well as the occasional autopsy report he wished to discredit). They had begun to establish a kind of rhythm. Weekdays, she guided their life in their tiny college town. Weekends, Sherlock lead them off on wild and furious adventures. But his attention was focused almost entirely on Oliver. 

Oliver loved him; that much was true. Sherlock loved him; that was undeniable. 

What he felt for  _her_ , she was entirely uncertain. His proximity at times was almost difficult to bear. 

“Do you hate me, Molly?” Sherlock Holmes asked her one night, several weeks after he reappeared in her life.

“What?”

“Your breathing pattern changes when I kiss you goodnight. Your muscles tense. Your lips press together. You plainly feel something; judging by the look of discomfort and the way your jaw juts slightly out, I suspect it is anger." 

Molly sighed. “I don’t hate you, Sherlock.”

His brows knit in confusion. “Why not?”

How could he not know? How was it at all possible he could miss it? Even after all the hurt between them. Even after all these years.

“I–” said Molly Hooper. If she knew him–if she’d _ever_ known him–she’d have said his face looked almost hopeful. “I could never hate you.” She turned before the tight nod and blank expression shifted to something else.

Hating him would have been simple. And Sherlock Holmes was anything but.

 

* * *

 

Milky blue twilight faded to violet evening to deepest night.

He laid a blanket across the grass. Their shoes discarded, Oliver lay on his back beside him. Heads together, Sherlock pointed out the constellations of the late summer, the direction to expect the meteors from. He explained their history; how they were first recorded nearly two thousand years ago in ancient China, and were a regular occurrence each year.

“Part of a debris cloud left by the tail of comet Swift-Tuttle, which orbits the solar system once each 133 years,” Sherlock said.

“Rock and ice,” Ollie said.

“Precisely. The tenuous comet atmosphere is called it’s _coma_ , created by the steady increase in heat radiation the comet experiences as it approaches the Sun. That coma is whipped behind in the comet’s wake, creating the huge tail we are familiar with.”

“Meteors are not comets, though,” Ollie offered. “Smaller.”

“Yes, though, as the Perseids are the direct result of a comet, I can appreciate it may be confusing.”

“‘snot,” Ollie replied. He pointed to a very bright star. “That star is Vega. It’s one of the brightest.”

“I see that.”

“It’s constellation is called Lyra, which is like a violin.”

Sherlock looked over. “Do you like the violin?”

“I dunno. Do you like violin?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I play. ”

Ollie’s mouth quirked up. “Cool. I don't.”

“We’ll remedy that.”

Molly watched the sky, listening to them chatter. After full dark, faint streaks of light would flash across the sky in little silvery blips. Beautiful. She lost herself in contentment. When she glanced over sometime later, Oliver was asleep, curled on a blanket and the Perseids streaking their brilliant light across the sky. As she looked toward the northwest, a large, sparkling meteor streaked across the sky.

She gasped in delight.

“Did you see?” she asked, looking to Sherlock.

“No.” He kissed her. She swayed back, moved, bowled over by the rush of it. He moved with her, his palm on her hip, holding her close until she broke away.

He blinked rapidly when they broke away. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

She was very still. A hundred possibilities spiraled out. Frozen in her indecision, considering her next choice, she said nothing. Molly kissed him.

The night drifted on. Brilliant bursts of light reeled across the sky.

 

* * *

 

_Three months later…_

 

At the doorway of Speedy’s Sherlock paused, watching the unexpected scene play out.

“Hello.”

“Oh, hello dear. Can I help you?”

“Do you live here?”

“I do.”

“Oh. Me too!”

“I’m sorry?”

Sherlock Holmes smirked. _Perfect_.

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson. You’ve met our newest resident.” He bent down and lifted Ollie into his arms. “My son.”

Mrs. Hudson goggled. “Sherlock! You have a son?”

“Ollie. ‘lo.” His son nodded perfunctorily.

“Oliver Nicholas Hooper Holmes,” Sherlock dutifully recited, precisely as Ollie had introduced himself.

Ollie beamed, pressing his head to his. “This is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a detective. And my dad.”

“I know him well enough, but it’s very nice to meet you, young man. Oh, heavens! Molly!”

Molly smiled happily, awkwardly. “Mrs. Hudson.”

Ollie’s nose scrunched. “You know my mum?”

Mrs. Hudson patted Molly’s cheeks, beaming. “Dearie! Oh, your mum used to _live_ here, pet. For a time, anyway. Bad spell, it was.” Realizing her error, she amended. “Though, clearly not.”

Ollie quirked his head to his mother. “You did?”

Molly nodded. “Briefly.”

“Oh,” Ollie considered the pair of them. “That explains it.”

Sherlock grinned. _Children are brilliant_ , he said without words.

 _This one is _,__ Molly intimated with a brush along his arm.

They climbed the stairs to 221B, where two indignant Watsons out-glared the one ecstatic.

Caitlin Watson scowled outrageously. “You have a _ _ _son_?”_ _

__“__ Yes.”

She frowned. Crossed her tiny arms. Pouted. “I suppose you prefer him now?”

Sherlock gave his goddaughter an annoyed look. “Don’t be tedious, Caitlin; I still love you.”

Ollie shyly shook John’s hand. He hugged Mary. Offered his favorite game to Caitlin. Begrudgingly, she joined in and after the two minutes Sherlock estimated, was completely and entirely hooked. 

John watched them, gaping. “You have a child? With Molly?”

He nodded at the children at their play. “I have a child with Molly.”

“And they live here now?”

“And they live here now.”

“It’s...amazing.”

“I know! Can’t wait to have another. So many gaps in the data to fill.”

John sputtered as Mary laughed. “‘Gaps in the data?’ Is that what you’re calling it?” She smiled at them, overcome with emotions. He pretended not to notice. Mary would have none of it.  bumped her shoulder against his, laid her head on his shoulder for a moment. "Good work."

Molly wiped at tears ("Happy tears," she had been careful to explain to both he and Oliver at several points during the last weeks.)

“Mummy,” Ollie beamed. He sprang off the sofa and bolted into Sherlock’s arms. “We’re home!”

Molly nuzzled his nose, laughing. Sherlock Holmes looked to his son and his partner, their twin smiles bright. Illuminating.  

"Yes," he said. “You are.”

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Star Stuff_ is a real children's book about the childhood of the astronomer Carl Sagan. He was a great inspiration, writer, educator, and scientist. If you have a small child in your life, or will soon, it is an excellent story. The Perseid meteor shower occurs in the Northern Hemisphere each August. I hope you have had the chance to see them. If not, NASA has a great Instagram! 
> 
> As always, comments and thoughts are much appreciated. Thank you for reading! You can find more nonsense from me at [miabicicletta.tumblr.com](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/miabicicletta).


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